


Reality is His Hands

by SALJStella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drunk Will, Hallucinations, M/M, Masturbation, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SALJStella/pseuds/SALJStella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing that scares Will more than reality is when he can't keep track on reality. In his current drunken stupor, Hannibal seems to be the only thing that's real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality is His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much angst, drunken Will, and sex. I tried to make it quick and dirty, but I have a knack for making my characters think too much, so it got a bit drawn out. And it's my first ever attempt of Hannibal fanfiction, so please be gentle!

_“Stay here, Will.”_

_Floor, dry and dusty beneath his feet. Breath, a cloud in the cold, like it’s some other life form._

_“You will never get away anyway. Stay here.”_

_She reaches out to him, her fingers purple and wax like. There’s no cloud forming in front of her face, because she’s not breathing. She’s dead. The wall behind her looks exactly like it did at the crime scene, Will remembers the mold stain in the left corner of the ceiling from when he was there this afternoon. The wooden floor. She’s dead. She was dead. She’s standing in front of him._

_None of this is real. But Will knows that when he snaps out of this, this whatever-it-is, the world he wakes up to will feel less real than this one._

Will doesn’t drink excessively. He doesn’t see a point. He’s always had different ways of coping with whatever it is that’s wrong with him, and drinking was never an addiction he favored. In college, he smoked a lot of pot. At some point, he developed a rather embarrassing addiction to watching movies. Or, he didn’t even have to watch it, he could have _Pulp Fiction_ playing in the background while he was doing the dishes, even though he knew it by heart. He got nervous when it was too quiet. Anything to distract from life itself, probably.

He doesn’t like the loss of control that alcohol induces, the way his mind clouds up. While pot doesn’t take away his anxiety rather than making it hilarious, alcohol does neither. It strengthens it all, that other side of him that he usually tries to repress goes from being a slow picking at his sanity to a whole separate entity, devouring him inside out.

He doesn’t know why he downed that bottle of wine tonight. It didn’t even seem like a good idea at the time, just a last resort, a way of making the shit stop. It didn’t.

He should know better. It never goes away.

His watch goes in and out of focus. 7:28 PM. Little more than an hour this time.

“It’s… 7:28 PM. I’m in… Baltimore, Maryland. I think. My name is Will Graham.”

He’s so sick of this. So sick of this routine. And he doesn’t know how to get home from here.

Will spins around, the world keeps moving a good few seconds after he stops. Alcohol still in his system, his terror is hazy, disorient smudged along the edges. Warm, glowing rectangles slowly straighten out in his vision, guiding. Windows. A house.

It takes him a while to determine that yes, he knows this place. He’s on the lawn right outside Hannibal’s office.

Right around 7:30.

It takes Will another couple of seconds to make the connection, every thought like a slow jab through his mind, lingering for a mere second before sinking away again. Oh.

Even when losing time, he tried to make it to his appointment.

Will has no interest whatsoever to talk about his feelings, or his cases, right now, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He starts walking towards the windows because they’re the only source of lights, and he wants to lie down. He wants to throw up, he wants to cry. He’s tired but he never wants to sleep again.

It’s just as he predicted in his nightmare. This is real, all this. The lawn, the windows. The hardness of the front door as he leans his forehead against it. (Cold, slick surface) But it’s fuzzy, none of it makes sense. It doesn’t feel anywhere near as real as the terror he felt during the blackout.

Will somehow makes it to the waiting room, but he probably won’t be able to stand up if he sits down, so he remains standing. Hannibal eventually opens the door, even though Will has no memory of knocking it.

“Good evening, Will. Please come in.”

Will walks past him. It feels like he’s walking a straight line, but he’s past trusting his senses. Though he has no idea what else to trust. Plus, it’s not like Hannibal won’t notice he’s drunk.

He turns towards Hannibal, who’s still standing, hands slightly curled by his sides, even though he’s usually sat down in his armchair at this point. He’s looking at Will. Watching. Will senses it even through the haze.

God, he’s feeling sick.

“I saw her.”

“Who did you see? Please, sit down.”

Will pretends not to hear the last part, even though the floor is moving uncomfortably. This is the peak of his drunkenness, he’s sure. Oh god. He wants to lie down. Tries to keep his eyes on Hannibal. Despite everything that’s moving, he looks solid. Real.

“Remember the girl… at the crime scene today? The one who’d been gutted and… raped?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I saw… she was… she was coming for me. And she said… I would alw- I would never get away.”

“I would like to discuss this further, Will. But it is not possible for me to focus on what you want to tell me before you let me tend to your head.”

Will squints at him.

“What?”

“Your head.” Hannibal gestures towards his forehead, all fingers perfectly pressed together. “You have a wound that is bleeding profusely. You must have hit something on your way over.”

Will raises his hand, which takes tremendous effort, and puts it in his hair. Warm, sticky. Well. What do you know.

“I have a first aid kit,” Hannibal says, walking over to his desk and opening a drawer. “Should I ask you to sit down again, or consider it a wasted effort?”

Will drops his head.

“I’ll take my chances.”

He slowly starts making his way towards the chair. In his mind, sluggish and dark as it is, he realizes that ever since he first started coming here, he’s had the same seat. He sat there the first time he came in, and haven’t stopped since. Minds make such curious habits. Little ways of fooling itself that it’s safe.

Will sits down. Hannibal crouches next to him, opening the first aid kit. It’s the old fashioned kind, the alcohol is in a glass bottle, the inside of the kit is laced with velvet.

Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand is on his face. For a brief second, Will wonders what the hell he’s doing, before the whiff of alcohol hits his nose, and the sting as Hannibal starts dabbing his wound. Will groans, warm hands keep him still. Stability.

“How did you obtain this?” Hannibal asks softly.

Will doesn’t answer right away. Hannibal probably knows the answer just by that.

“I don’t remember. I… I lost time.”

Hannibal keeps cleaning the cut, steady movements. Will keeps his eyes on the opposite chair. He tells himself that it’s because the wound is on the side of his head, so he’d only make Hannibal’s task more difficult by turning to look at him, but that’s not all. This is the closest he’s ever physically been to Hannibal. He can smell the faint scent of his hair gel through the disinfectant.

“You don’t remember how you came here?” Hannibal asks.

“No.”

“You did not drive, did you? Or did you start drinking once you reached my yard?”

He puts the used cotton ball back into the kit and picks up another one. Will snorts, the simple motion makes his the entire room sway. Hannibal doesn’t need to ask if he’s drunk. He knows. Will likes that. It’s good.

Hannibal is steady. His entire being is so solid and so real that not even Will’s delusions, or his drunkenness, can compromise it. Nothing can falter his purity, nothing can disturb the even rhythm in which he cleans the wound. And the hand on Will’s cheek, keeping him in place. Yes. That’s good. Warm. Determined.

“No,” Will finally says. He doesn’t know how long it’s been quiet. “I… I’m pretty sure I got here by foot. I could’ve… hit my head on a… branch or something…”

“I see,” Hannibal says, puts the new cotton ball down and retrieves a bandage. He brushes Will’s bangs aside and places it right below his hairline, with surgical precision, before raking his fingers through his hair again, putting it back in place. Will finds himself leaning into the touch. “You need to be more careful. You could’ve hurt yourself much worse than this.”

“I know,” Will says. He’s staring at Hannibal’s hands, realizing this without knowing how long he’s been doing so. “I-I don’t have any control over it.”

Hannibal nods slowly. Will would feel slightly better about admitting he was a psycho if he didn’t admit it to someone who even now, sitting on the floor, did so perfectly, if that’s even possible. Hannibal’s arm is folded over Will’s armrest, the other with his hand resting lightly on his own knee. Not a hair out of line, everything he does is perfectly deliberate. Will admires that. In a sense, it’s beautiful.

“We need to find you something to keep you anchored in reality,” Hannibal goes on. “Or simply rely on me being that anchor.”

Will dares a glance at his face.

“You can’t always be around, doctor Lecter. I know you’re the Zen master, but even you have limitations.”

Hannibal smiles ever so slightly. The tiny crinkles around his eyes.

“You underestimate me. I’ve told you, my kitchen is always open for friends.”

Will snorts again.

“Including your train wreck friends?”

“Including _you._ But you’re anything but a train wreck, Will.”

Will lowers his gaze. Even through the padding that the alcohol puts around his senses, he feels what this does to him. Despite all the times they’ve sat in this office, talking about Will’s darkest secrets, things he’d never tell anyone, this feels too intimate. Too close. Hannibal giving him compliments when he’s like this, unwound, broken, and in no position to do anything but trust him.

_In his hands._ The phrase pops up, Will smacks it away.

A few long seconds pass. Will feels Hannibal’s eyes on his face, like he’s searching for something, _does he find it?_ Eventually, Hannibal closes the first aid kit and walks with it back to his desk. Will keeps looking at his own hands, just to be sure.

“Anyone weaker than you would have done something regrettable at this point. You haven’t.”

“That we know of.”

“I know you haven’t.”

Hannibal is back by his side, again crouching on the floor. He’s worried, he wants to make sure Will doesn’t black out, or throw up on his expensive carpet. Will still doesn’t want to make eye contact, even though if there would be anyone he’d feel comfortable doing that with, it’d be Hannibal. He doesn’t trust his own reactions to whatever way Hannibal’s looking at him. He’s drunk, the lights in the office are dimmed, casting strange shadows. Everything looks different than it actually is.

“You may be unstable,” Hannibal goes on, softer now. “And you might not be sure you’re incapable of murder. But I am. If you had it in you, I would tell.”

Will gives him a look. Hannibal is too close. Not physically, they’ve been closer than this. Just now, Hannibal stroked his hair. That was different, platonic, friendly, and this, Will can’t deny his reactions to. Why? What’s different?  

He’s not sure. Either way, it makes him uncomfortable. He’s still not sure what’s real, and his stupor is passing into that stage where it doesn’t even make things fuzzy and slow anymore, rather than giving him a headache, dry, stiff tongue, and compromises his vision. Will stands up, faltering slightly, Hannibal follows his motions, raising uncertain hands, as if to catch him if he’d fall.

Will walks over to the window, puts his palm flat against it, not caring if he leaves a stain. He needs it to be real. The cold of the night outside is real. It has to be.

Hannibal is behind him. As usual with no audible steps or signs of moving that normal people display.

“You’re anxious.” It’s not a question. Will jerks his head lazily.

“Yeah, well…” he’s too tired to think of sarcasms. Hannibal is so warm, so stable.

“Forgive me for not being on the top of my game after possibly murdering three people and then seeing them in my nightmares.”

“That should be normal to you at this point.” Will snorts wearily. “But you have not killed anyone. You need to trust me on this.”

“I can’t…” Will’s fingers curl against the window pane. “How can I… _trust…_ I don’t even…”

He presses his hand harder against the glass. It’s cold. It needs to be. This has to be true.

The cold of the window and the heat of Hannibal behind him, suddenly so close that he can no doubt feel Will’s heart beat, heavy and needy, through layers of clothing.

“You’re afraid of reality,” Hannibal says. Will feels his hand on his shoulder. “Because you can’t keep it separate from your vivid imagination.”

“Yeah.”

“But you can keep imagination from reality. That’s why you prefer being in your head, and why you hate it when it turns against you.”

“Mm.”

He’s past disliking how close Hannibal is. Whatever this is, he couldn’t hold this back of he tried. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, so Will doesn’t, either. He finds that he’s pressing his hand so hard against the window that he’s not-quite-subconsciously started to lean in against Hannibal, but also that he doesn’t have it in him to stop doing this.

“I don’t even know…” Will finally says, after a few seconds of breathing in unison, “if this… if _you…”_

He feels Hannibal’s thumb stroke his shoulder, small, small circles through fabric. He doesn’t get an answer. Will is just starting to get scared that this whole thing was just a way for Hannibal to reassure him, or even worse, that Hannibal will grow fangs and Will wake up in his bed, simmering in cold sweat, when he feels the hand on his shoulder move down, across his chest.

Will is about to moan, aloud, but figures this to be awkward enough as it, so he lets it subdue into a sigh. Hannibal’s fingertips keeps kneading against his chest, firm but slow movements, building up, slow, burning. Jesus. Okay.

The cold of the window, Hannibal’s warmth, translating to liquid fire as it courses through him. This is real. There’s no questioning it, but Will is still scared. Terrified, even, but it doesn’t weaken his reactions to the touch.

Alcohol still buzzing, he feels another panic attack prodding, but somehow, in the middle of this, he’s managed to get hard. Hannibal’s other hand snakes around his hip, Will feels his breath on his temple.

“It’s remarkable how responsive you are, Will,” Hannibal says. Will feels his voice rather than hears it, a low rumble through their points of contact.

“Thanks,” Will says feebly. It doesn’t really come out as a joke, probably because he’s panting.

The hand on his chest shifts slightly, moving to his shirt buttons, one by one, they pop open and suddenly Hannibal is touching him directly, warm, dry hand caressing the slightly fuzzy skin of Will’s breast bone before sliding down his nipple, scraping with his nails. Will isn’t even ashamed of the full-body shudder it elicits. Hannibal strokes his hip, as if to reassure him.

It’s not enough. Will needs more. Even though somewhere, beneath the sense-numbing arousal, he feels that if he brings Hannibal down to the raw, primal level he’s on now, he’ll see something he doesn’t want to see.

Hannibal shifts his head, his face in Will’s neck. Little to anyone’s surprise, he inhales his scent, and hums in appreciation, before shifting his hips just so, pressing his own apparent erection into Will’s buttocks. Will exhales noisily, his head falls back onto Hannibal’s shoulder. He feels a smirk against his ear.

“I was going to say we have all the time in the world, but you certainly don’t think so, do you?”

“I’m not the most patient I’ve ever been, no,” Will says, his chest heaving under Hannibal’s hand. “Just… touch my dick, come on.”

He feels another squeeze at his hip, before the serving hand sneaks lower. Hannibal presses down hard against his crotch while his mouth opens against Will’s throat, biting with more mouth than teeth, but still draws out a gasp. His shirt is now open all the way down, Hannibal is still fully clothed. Will fumbles meekly for the back of Hannibal’s head, pressing his face further into his neck, the other still resting on the glass. (Cold.)

He only gets a brief sense of Hannibal’s hair under his hand before the nibbles against his neck suddenly become sharp-toothed. Will grunts in pain.

“Stay still,” Hannibal mumbles against his skin.

There’s not the slightest change of tone in his voice, but Will still immediately drops his hand. He’s not sure where he’s allowed to keep it, so he rests it on top of Hannibal’s, pawing across his skin. Hannibal rewards him with a slight curve of the hand against his erection, Will’s not even sure what he does, but it’s real and it’s here and combined with Hannibal’s mouth against his carotid artery, he could kill him, it’s so soft, just a flex of his jaws, and for some reason, that thought sends another rush of heat pooling through Will’s stomach.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when Hannibal finally unzips his fly, slowly, like he’s unwrapping a present, reaches into Will’s boxers, Will jolts when his cock is finally given contact after what feels of forever of insufficient pressure, and actually whines when Hannibal gives him a long, tight stroke, pre-cum smearing the length, his mouth moving up to Will’s ear, licking along the shell.

Will tries to turn around. He wants to reciprocate, wants to kiss Hannibal’s mouth, his weight on top of him, but Hannibal repeats his calm “keep still,” even closer to his ear now, and Will obeys. He won’t go against Hannibal. He has a strange kind of authority to him, and Will loves it, he’s always respected its unquestionability. He had no idea it’d be even more delightful when it was used against him.

Hannibal keeps nipping down his neck, along his throat, the vulnerability is intoxicating. Will always figured Hannibal to be an asexual being, as people probably tend to do with their therapists. He doesn’t know why. The finer pleasures in life seems to be one of the few things Hannibal holds dear, and sex is an art form, of course he’s excellent at it. Will’s orgasm is already working its way through his entire form, weakening his knees, he feels a hint of a moan vibrate through Hannibal as he circles the head of his cock with his thumb.

“I-I need…” Will says shakily, licking his lips, not sure what he’s asking for. “I… _oh…”_

His knees give out as Hannibal’s thumb presses against his frenulum. Hannibal’s arm wraps tighter around his torso, keeping him in place. They’re pressed together in almost every possible contact point when Will comes, in a drawn-out moan, clutching to Hannibal with one hand and the other on the window pane. His fingertips are white with how hard he press against it.

Hannibal holds him close until his breathing has evened out. Will eventually lifts his head from his shoulder, Hannibal keeps his face in his hair, breathing him in again. Will wishes he never had to move, but he’s tired, still a little drunk, and as he moves, he becomes aware of the awkward feeling of cum against his skin. Hannibal’s erection is still prodding against his backside. Despite being utterly spent, Will feels a spark in his belly.

“Do you want me to…” he begins quietly.

Then Hannibal lets go of him, and he immediately regrets asking.

“It can wait,” Hannibal says, in a tone Will can’t interpret. “You’re tired, you need to sleep it off. Would you like me to drive you home?”

Will shakes his head.

“I won’t be able to sleep anyway. Might as well walk.”

For whatever reason, he gets the feeling Hannibal is smiling behind him.

“I’m going back to my house. You are free to come with if you like.”

Will nods. He’s too tired to disagree, and he probably wouldn’t want to if he thought about it. The alcohol is wearing off, and the window in front of him isn’t an anchor to reality anymore. It’s just darkness.

Hannibal’s hand between his shoulder blades.

“Come on, then.”

Will walks with him through the office, the waiting room, through the front door. Will sits down in his car, not sure what he’s feeling. Hannibal starts the engine, and Will becomes pretty certain that what he’s feeling is fear.

He’s not sure how he’s going to cope with reality, or the few parts of it that he catches in the midst of his blackouts, if he doesn’t get this again.

They drive out onto the dark road, and don’t speak until they arrive at Hannibal’s house. Will keeps his hand on the car window the entire time. Just in case it’s their last time like this, he doesn’t want to lose time right now.

 


End file.
